Music and people hold my life together. I describe experiences, discoveries and insights, often connected with music and with teaching and playing piano. The blog is a way to stay in touch with friends, and may also be food for thought for anyone else, especially people connected with music and the piano/
Musik und Menschen halten mein Leben zusammen. Ich beschreibe Erfahrungen, Entdeckungen und Einsichten, oft in Zusammenhang mit dem Klavierspiel und dem Klavierunterricht.

As if to visually underscore a major point of his interpretation, Andras Schiff positioned his feet at a safe distance to the pedals when he sat down at the piano, and only moved them once to use the sostenuto pedal at the end of the a-minor Fugue. The middle pedal only keeps up the damper of first note or group of notes you play, allowing the pianist to sustain the long a in the bass through 4 1/2 measures without blurring the lines of the other four voices moving at the same time. In the commentary he explains that this fugue was originally written for the organ, which justifies the use of the sostenuto pedal.

I had heard about Schiff’s idea of playing Bach without the pedal in order to achieve maximum clarity of the voices, and I found it hard to believe. The outlook on Bach's music without the pedal alone was enough for a friend to decline my invitation to come along. Being as much into the Well-Tempered Clavier as I am, I felt almost obliged to attend Schiff’s concert. I’ve played and performed the entire Book I; I’m currently working on Book II, and planning to perform it next spring.

Andras Schiff is considered one of todays leading performers of Bach’s keyboard works. Many years ago, at a time when I still found it difficult to connect to the Preludes and Fugues, I heard him play Book II in Cologne. The performance had inspired me, and made me want to explore the music further.

The well known Prelude in C-major, which opens Book I, is probably one of Bach’s most over -pedaled compositions. It can easily become a cloud of blurred harmonies, and often people aren’t even aware of the subtle melody lines and the hidden polyphony that shimmers through the broken chords. Schiff played the piece completely without the pedal and quite straightforward, never exaggerating dynamic shadings or allowing much time. That set the scene for most Preludes and Fugues in the first half of the program.

Already in the first fugue, I found the dryness of the sound disturbing. The subject had been introduced legato in the beginning and in the course of the piece it occasionally came along non legato in middle voices where it’s impossible to connect with the hands alone. Sometimes quick changes of hand position sounded ripped off, and I didn’t find final chords without resonance particularly appealing. One piece floated into the next without a break, an endless string of Preludes and Fugues, moving along with the precision of a clockwork. By the time he reached the Prelude and Fugue in c-sharp minor I was seriously put off, and found that the point he was trying to make distracted me from the music:

“ Was it Rubinstein who said the pedal was the soul of the piano? Why is he depriving the instrument of its soul? - He puts Bach in a straightjacket - He’s amputating the sound...”

I don’t intend to be disrespectful. Andras Schiff’s technique is superb, and the concentration that allows him to perform the entire book from memory deserves the greatest admiration. There were beautiful moments; the lyrical approach to the C-sharp major Prelude, the Fugues in E and in E-flat major. The no-pedal approach worked best for the pieces that move at a faster tempo.

To my mind, it didn’t help the more contemplative, meditative pieces, the Fugue in C-major, the Preludes and Fugues in c-sharp minor, f-minor, and the Fugue in d-sharp minor especially. Not only does the pedal connect, it also prolongs the individual sound and adds color by allowing the strings that are contained in the note as overtones to reverberate along with the main note. Was it the lack of pedal that determined Schiff’s tempo choices for these pieces, all of them on the fast side? There were colors, but there would have been more colors if he had used the pedal every once in a while. In all, my predominant impression from the first half of the concert was the sound of a piano played without the pedal. I was tempted to leave early, and started to wonder who might enjoy my ticket for next Thursday’s performance of Book II.

During break, I got the chance to blow off a little steam in conversation with a young woman who sat in the row behind me, and since half the evening was gone anyway, I decided to stick things out to the bitter end. It was a good decision, I liked the second half much better. I may have calmed down a little, or simply given up on missing the pedal. The pianist seemed more relaxed, more emotionally involved, I began to recognize the music I know and love. The Prelude in G-major, and the Prelude and Fugue in B-flat major sounded elegant and full of spirit. I found my favorite, the last Fugue in b-minor, acceptable - but I think a very sensitive, discreet use of the pedal would have been beneficial to this piece, and to all the others as well.

They say that in a good meal, you shouldn’t be able to tell what the individual ingredients are. Everything comes together to produce a result that is delicious. It’s the same with the ingredients that make up good piano playing. The use of dynamics, voicing, hand balance, articulation, phrasing, shaping of phrases and the use of the pedals all work together to express the music. Andras Schiff’s approach to Bach without the pedal left me with the impression of a dietary version, in spite of the numerous merits of his playing.

I don’t want to go into detail regarding the arguments he brings up in his program notes - that Bach’s instruments didn’t have a pedal, from which the pianist concludes that it must be possible to play the Preludes and Fugues without using it, relying on the hands alone; that the technical difficulty is no excuse for lack of trying. Something about the argument sounds far fetched to me, as if his main purpose were to make a point, and follow it all the way to the end, even if the advantage to the music is questionable.

Bach left comparatively little instruction how to play his music. Most of it has to be reconstructed with the help of research. The search for truth is important, even if the absolute truth can’t be found. Every voice adds an aspect, that can inspire even if you disagree with the opinion. We can revive old practices, turn to period instruments and succeed in reconstructing what Bach’s music might have sounded like, but we will never hear it on the background of his view and experience of the world, through his ears and the ears of his time. We’re bound to play his music with different “accents,” depending on the conclusions we draw from the research we’ve done, from our experience, from our personal intuition and imagination.

Across centuries and though different interpretations Bach’s music still speaks to us, and touches our hearts. Ultimately that is more important than everything else.

Monday, October 22, 2012

“Is the pianist anybody one should know? ” asked the vendor in the ticket booth when I purchased two tickets for Paul Lewis’ concert at Alice Tully Hall on October 20 in the summer. “I haven’t heard him personally, “ I had to admit, “but my teacher was thrilled by Lewis’ recording of all the Beethoven Sonatas, so we’re going.” “Maybe I should consider going myself, then,” replied the man.

I can only hope he gave himself the treat to hear Paul Lewis perform Schubert’s last three piano Sonatas on Saturday. It was one of these extraordinary performances where a performer doesn’t just “reproduce” the music, but seems to reinvent it, deepening your understanding and reinforcing your connection to it. “Magical, stupendous, superhuman” - that’s how Seymour Bernstein described it afterwards.

To begin with, I have to confess that I had to “warm up.” In the c-minor Sonata, which opened the program, there were moments where I wanted more time. Somehow, things were moving too fast. The pianist’s ease mastering the immense technical difficulties of the piece was fascinating, I almost missed the feeling of struggle. Dynamics and colors of sound were of a striking variety, but the piano didn’t seem to have a lot of resonance. The sound died away quickly, as in a dry acoustic, or with an instrument that doesn’t sustain the sound very well. Maybe my ears were clogged up from the cold I’d been struggling with all week. The fact that I’m less familiar with the piece than with the other two Sonatas could also have played a role.

Whatever the obstacle between myself and the music had been, it dissolved with the opening of the Sonata in A-major, which was next on the program. In my mind I could still hear my friend Raj Bhimani play it at the Lincoln Center Library a year or two ago, an unforgettable, deeply moving performance. Paul Lewis‘ playing connected to my memory of the piece, and then the memory disappeared and seamlessly merged with the present interpretation, every note a magnet. The music sounded as if it were improvised, completely new, an idea conceived in the present moment.

“It’s music that makes you want to gush at every moment,” my teacher Seymour Bernstein said during intermission, “but if you follow that impulse, you spoil it and it falls apart. You have to exactly know where to take time, where to make it special, and Lewis does. He has a magnificent sense of the architecture.”

Too close, too emotionally involved, I wasn’t aware of this aspect of the music in this Sonata, and in the B-flat major Sonata, which followed. Again, memories returned, of the time I spent teaching at the Concord Community Music school in NH, where my colleague Anita Yu had performed it . In my mind's eye, I could see the concert hall at school, and a sudden wave of nostalgia rose as the music touched every “soft spot” in my soul, and brought back everything I have ever left behind. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see other people in the audience wiping their eyes and reaching for handkerchiefs.

For me, those are the most extraordinary moments in Schubert’s music, when pain and beauty touch each other, and the beauty transforms the pain. They are like the moment in grieving when you realize that your grief is only a part of the whole and only a part of who you are. Beauty penetrates the fog that surrounds you, and you realize that life and the world outside are still beautiful in spite of whatever maybe troubling you at this particular moment.

The music reached a level of intensity where you almost forgot about the pianist who made it all happen, the presence of the music reigned over everything. Paul Lewis sat at the piano in stillness and concentration, every motion and gesture serving the music. He sailed through passages of extreme technical difficulty with the ease of someone who has transcended virtuosity and applies his skills to conveying meaning, rather than attracting attention to himself.

The audience gave him a standing ovation, he had to come out four, five times, maybe even more. Fortunately, he didn’t play an encore - there was nothing left to be said.

The inevitable Coda followed - the way home, starting with the subway, which was late. On the platform, I noticed several people who carried the same program as I did, an expression on their faces as if they’d just witnessed something extraordinary. Most of them were silent. When the train arrived, I was still wondering about ways to stop the flutist, who had positioned himself at the other end of the platform - not that the playing was poor, it was just bad timing for another performance.

The sheltered world of the concert hall, and the unfiltered reality of the outside world clashed with each other. As I rushed around a corner at Port Authority, trying to catch my bus, a strong whiff of body odor and stale clothes hit me, emanating from a person huddled against the wall. It triggered the slight feeling of guilt that often gets me when I’ve had an experience of extraordinary beauty that is considered privileged and exclusive. Then Schubert’s miserable life came to mind, and the melody of the last movement of the A-major Sonata. Pain doesn’t cancel out the beauty, and knowing that sustains. I only wished more people could share that experience. ----------------------

Raising the standard for housekeeping. Every trip under the shelf or the sofa brings him back full of dust
/ Er erhoeht die Anspruche an den Hausputz. Nach jedem Ausflug unters Sofa kommt er ganz verstaubt zuerueck.

Sunday, October 7, 2012

The meeting of the writers' group that I had attended at the public library in Montclair last Wednesday finished at noon, which gave me a little time to stroll around town before heading back to the station to catch my train. Just by chance, I discovered the street where a friend of mine used to live years ago. Sometimes, I stayed with her when I came from New Hampshire for lessons with Seymour Bernstein in New York City. Lost in memories, I strolled through the neighborhood, until a glance at my watch reminded me that it was time to get moving if I didn’t want to miss my train.

I needed to get home to practice.! The adult player’s group of the Leschetizky Association had its first meeting for the following Sunday, and I had signed up to play.

Easily, I found my way back to Bloomfield Avenue, which leads to the station. It wasn’t the route I had taken when I had ventured out from the library, so I wasn’t surprised that the neighborhood looked slightly different from what I remembered from my way there.

In my mind, I began to reconstruct the Prelude in d-sharp minor from the second book of the Well Tempered Clavier. After some time, I noticed that there were fewer houses, the road went steadily uphill and disappeared into the woods after a sharp turn. One thing I was sure of: From the station to the library the road lead uphill all the way. Now, I was on the way back, from somewhere near the library to the station. The inversion of up is down. A shopper coming out of a supermarket confirmed what I had begun to suspect: in order to get to the station, I needed to walk in the opposite direction.

The chance to catch my train in Montclair dwindled, but there was a 30 minute layover at Newark Broad Street Station, where I had to change trains. With a little bit of luck, I might be able to catch the train if I took a bus to Broad Street Station, I had done it before.

At the bus station, the bus driver was taking a break. “I think it’s a number 34 bus,” said a young man who was waiting, when I asked about the bus line, “but you can take any bus from here, they all go to Newark Broad Street.”

Did I actually ask the bus driver himself whether he was going there? I’m not sure, but I must have, because he said the fare was $ 2.35. After a few blocks down Bloomfield Avenue, the bus took a right and continued on a side street. The last time I took the bus to catch the train in Newark, it was a straight shot down Bloomfield Avenue, about 15, 20 minutes and then there was the station.

We coasted around affluent residential areas for a while, then the neighborhood became more modest, apartment buildings, a retirement home. There is nothing wrong with expanding your knowledge of the area, unless you have an appointment with Bach at the piano at home, and the train that takes you home runs once an hour.

At a bus stop in front of a NJT office building the bus driver got off, and a different bus driver took over. We continued. A busy street some way ahead looked as if it could be Bloomfield Avenue, but it only lead to the highway. We crossed and moved on. A road sign pointed to the town of East Orange.

I moved up to the front seat of the bus, right behind the driver, and asked: “Can you please tell me where to get off for the Newark Broad Street train station?”

“Newark Broad Street? I’m not going to Newark Broad Street, that’s a different bus.” “So where are you going?”

“South Street.” That didn’t tell me anything.

“Are you going by Newark Penn Station by any chance?” I asked. I had been there once, on the way from New York to Newark Airport, and if I made it to Newark, I figured there had to be a way to get from one station to the other.

“Yes,” confirmed the bus driver, “ you can get off at Newark Penn Station, and there you can take the bus or the train over to Newark Broad Street.”

“ Can you please tell me when we get to Newark Penn Station?”

“ A lot of people get off there, you can’t miss it.”

The bus cruised along busy streets that didn’t look very inviting. At last it stopped in an underpass. There was something that could be covered train tracks overhead. The bus driver nodded in my direction, many passengers got off, and so did I. On the sidewalk, I found myself directly in front of a glass door that promised access to tracks 4 and 5.

I tried the door handle, but the door refused to budge. Access to tracks one and two was only a few steps over, so I tried that one. Same result. How about nine and ten, at the other end? As I applied more energy to the door handle, I the writing on the door caught my eye: “Open from 6 am to 12 pm and from 4 pm to 7 pm.”

It was not 4 pm yet, but eventually, it would be, if I didn’t find the entrance to this darned train station! Where in all the world was the main entrance?

The fact that trains move on rails guarantees certain predicable routes, and if you follow those rails long enough, you will inevitable come a railroad station - unless the tracks are no longer in service. Step back, take a couple of deep breaths and try to take in the bigger picture.

The train tracks continued along a parking lot across the street, and they seemed to end in a huge rectangular building, only a block away. As I approached, big letters above the entrance came into view: PENNSYLVANIA STATION NEWARK. Hooray!!!

Inside, there was a line at the information booth. The people in front of me had many questions and complex concerns to be taken care of. In my mind’s eye the tail lights of the train I was planning to catch disappeared in the distance.

My turn came at last. “How do I get to Newark Broad Street Station from here?”

“Your best bet is the bus no 71, but you can also take the Light Rail. ”

“I’ve had enough of the bus for the day. I think I’ll take the train.”

“ That would be track two then, and first, you have to get the $ 1.50 ticket.”

There were ticket booths for Amtrack and ticket booths for New Jersey Transit, and ticket machines. As far as I know, Amtrack is long distance, and the shortest lines were in front of the ticket machines. I selected my destination, and the price for the ticket came up: $ 4.00.

That couldn’t be right. I threw a helpless look in the direction of the information booth, but by now, there was another line. Maybe the bus was the better option. I went back outside, but I couldn’t find the bus stop where I had gotten off. There were other bus stops, people were waiting in line, signs listed different buses, but 71 was not among them. There was a bus to "Ivy Hill," which is a 10 minute walk from where I live, but who knows how many neighborhoods in New Jersey are named "Ivy Hill," and I wasn’t in the mood for more experiments!

I returned to the train station, bought the $ 4.00 train ticket, and rushed up the stairs to track 2. The platform was deserted, except for a gentleman who was texting on his cell phone. “Excuse me, “ I interrupted, “ do all trains on this platform go to Newark Broad Street?” “ Sorry, I don’t know, I’m waiting for an Amtrack train to Washington DC,” he replied.

A train arrived on the opposite platform. Destination: New York City. That was not my direction, but at least I knew where I was going, and how to get home from there. If I was lucky, it would stop in Secaucus - just outside of the city - where I could catch a train to Newark Broad Street, where I could change to my train to Maplewood.

I was lucky - which meant that I had to wait for 40 minutes in Secaucus, until I could catch a train to Newark Broad Street, where I had a 30 minute layover until the train to Maplewood arrived. At least I had a good book with me. By the time I got home, I was ready for dinner, and relieved that I have a couple of days left to practice.

Keep your mind on what you are doing, isn’t that what they say? Focus on practicing while you practice, and on getting home, while you’re trying to get home - maybe there is something to it.